“Look at that table, sir,” continued the woman, “set sence five o’clock this evenin’—the time the poor is supposed to git off. Look at the sour bread the baker sells us, an’ the salt butter the grocer weighs us, an’ the molasses, an’ rind of cheese. That’s our Christmas Eve supper, but sech as it is it’s been waitin’ for hours for my boarders.”
The Judge said nothing, but his gaze went round the shabby room. Nothing more unlike his idea of a boarding house could be imagined.
The little thin woman with the sharp eyes interpreted his glance.
“Yes, sir, I earns my livin’ by keepin’ boarders—ever sence my husband was poisoned to death by work in the city sewers. There’s that boarder,” and she pointed to a plate on the table—“Matthew Jones. He works in a fur store—overtime now, because it’s Christmas, and some grand lady must have her set of sables to-night. The light is poor in his workroom, an’ his eyes is bad, but no matter—he’s got to work or be fired. Then next to him sits Harry Ray. He’s in the express employ. Only seventeen, an’ an orphan. He’s drivin’ till one and two every night now, an’ eatin’ his lunch on his seat in his cart. He’s got an awful cold. After Christmas he’ll likely take time to have newmania or grip. Then there’s old man Fanley. He’s carryin’ parcels for a small firm—poor old soul, stumblin’ round in the cold at night when he ought to be in bed. O! sir, we don’t hate work, we poor uns, we’ll slave all day, but I do think the rich might let us have our nights. We’d serve ’em better, sir, we would.”
The Judge bent his white head and nodded it sadly. At times there seemed no joy, no pleasure in life, only stern taskmasters and shrinking slaves.
“It’s hardest on the children,” pursued the woman in a lower tone. “My heart bleeds for ’em. I’ve just got me own in bed. They’re all workin’ too, now that it’s holiday time. I was just waitin’ for this stray lamb,” and her glance softened as it fell on the bobbing form of the sleeping child.
The Judge raised his head. “Isn’t this your child?” he asked, sharply.
The woman turned to Titus. “What do he say?”
Titus repeated the question, and she intently watched the motion of his lips.
“My child!” she exclaimed. “O, law no! Look at my hair, sir, black as a crow’s. Those curls be quite light,” and she stepped over and laid a hand on the child’s head.